That Particular Peculiarity
by LittleTantrum
Summary: Inspired by a hilarious tumblr conversation about Sarah having maid lays in every great house in Yorshire. Also a bit of Sarah/Susan
1. Chapter 1

"Don't stop! Oh don't stop!" the other lady's maid cried loudly, much too loudly. Sarah never minded a screamer but this woman was ludicrous.

"Christ, I'm not going to stop. Would you just pipe down before someone hears," she growled, smothering her partner's wails with her free hand and then a pillow. Finally, there was a shudder and a shriek that made Sarah thank God for the muffling effects of goose down.

In the ensuing stillness, Sarah reached down beside the rather crowded single bed and rummaged the pockets of her dress, which lay crumpled on the floor, for her box of fags and matchbook. As she lit the cigarette between her lips the woman next to her finally spoke between gasps for breath.

"Oh a fag would hit the spot right now."

Sarah's brow furrowed but she handed the box over to Wilkins.

"Sorry about before," the other maid said casually, pausing to light up, "it was such a long day and I was really knackered."

"Yes, you work so hard," Sarah said, eyes narrowing.

"I _suppose_ I could try again if you like."

"No, s'alright. I'm tired as well," Sarah said, thinking to herself "_and I doubt I have the patience for that sad performance again_." She knew she'd given Wilkins far better than she'd received but she hated to leave any task half done. Sarah took another drag from her cigarette. What was the appropriate amount of time to wait here _chatting_ before she dressed and went back to her room? If she offended Wilkins, the sourpuss would be churlish for the rest of the week and Sarah had hoped to have it off at least one more time before the family left back to Downton. However, listening to the woman next to her droned on and on about some grievance or another gave Sarah doubts about whether it was worth the trouble. Maybe she should start dressing now and to hell with etiquette. Although, at Sarah's age and situation she didn't exactly have the luxury of being choosy when it came to intimate partners.

While Wilkins blathered on, Sarah's mind wandered to the activities of the day. She'd reset Lady Flintshire's mess of a hairdo and, although they'd tiptoed around the subject all night, Wilkins was clearly put out over it. Something else about that incident needled into Sarah's thoughts. When she'd finished placing the last hairpin she had rested her hands gently on Lady Flintshire's shoulders. She pulled them back quickly, realizing it was a habit she picked up while working for Lady Grantham. Lady Flintshire had not missed the boldly familiar gesture and Sarah prepared herself for an admonishing look. What she got instead was a knowing smile and a subtly raised eyebrow. "Thank you, Miss O'Brien," the Marchioness had said without breaking eye-contact. "M'Lady," Sarah had nodded, cocking her head and raising an eyebrow - returning _the look_ - also a habit of hers, though developed in a rather different setting. Lady Flintshire's nearly imperceptible communication was familiar to Sarah. In her younger days, she had had it from many a housemaid, or kitchenmaid, or lady's maid, a housekeeper or two, and once a gardener's wife, each glanced signal the precursor to some eventual clandestine activity. But, priding herself on her professional invisibility, Sarah had never gotten that knowing look from one of them upstairs. Maybe she was mistaken. Had Wilkins seen it? She was standing right there.

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, interrupting whatever complaint her bedmate had been prattling on about. "Is Lady Flintshire...," she was unsure of how best to phrase her question, women like herself rarely talked about what they were, they simply did what they did, "is she... you know..." Sarah wished Wilkins wasn't so dense and could simply surmise her meaning, but the other maid gave no indication of understanding. "Is she... like us?"

"What do you mean?"

Bloody hell, the woman was thick, "Is she," Sarah grimaced at being forced to use the soppy sweet term Wilkins prefered, "a _kindred_ _spirit_?"

"Not likely!" Wilkins scoffed, "No she's not anything like us." The maid took a drag from her cigarette - _Sarah's cigarette_. "She styles herself a _sapphist_," she said, emphasizing the last word with mocking disdain.

Sarah said nothing for a moment. She had never served a mistress who shared that particular _peculiarity_ with her. The possibility had never even been considered. "Have you and she ever…?"

"As if I would. She thinks her proclivities are so much more sophisticated, with her letters from _friends_ in Paris and her special ladies journals. Thinks she's above the likes of you and me."

"Oh I just thought I picked up a bit of a-"

"Trust me, that look meant nothing." So Wilkins had seen it too. "She'll look at anyone, the woman obviously has no standards."

Sarah pursed her lips, not missing the insult. "Weren't you just saying she was a snob," she said moving to the edge of the bed and pulling her dress up over her legs.

"Of course, you're going already," Wilkins sneered.

"It's late," Sarah said, feeling no more obligation to make an excuse for herself. The woman was going to be churlish either way and Sarah was not interested in putting up with it more than she must. Buttoning the side of her dress, she reached for the door handle.

"You're daft if you think she wouldn't use you to serve her needs and then toss you away when she's satisfied. Don't kid yourself that you're anything but a servant."

Sarah opened the door and slipped out without a word. Stepping softly through the servants quarters back to her own temporary accommodations, she shook her head to herself, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand. Why did she still do this? It wasn't even fun anymore. There had been a time when Sarah had a girl in every great house in Yorkshire and just as many in Town. But Lady Grantham had traveled less and less over the years and most of Sarah's "girls" one-by-one left service to tow the line and marry some bloke. Since the war, young girls with similar "interests" weren't entering service anymore and the ones leftover were often embittered old spinsters like Wilkins. Her prospects had narrowed significantly. Closing her bedroom door gently behind her, Sarah sat down on the edge of her bed, thinking. She couldn't help but feel age catching up to her. She got little satisfaction anymore from her rather infrequent encounters. They had become impersonal, perfunctory. The chase had lost it's thrill. She was tired. Maybe Thomas had been on to something. She had often chided him for being so lovelorn, even used it against him. But maybe he wasn't wrong in thinking that the physical bit wasn't enough, in admitting he was lonely and that he needed more. Maybe she needed more. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Sarah shook the melancholy thoughts from her head and began changing for bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Having dressed her mistress for an afternoon walk in the gardens, Sarah left Lord and Lady Grantham nattering and making mooney faces at one another in her ladyship's room. Heading toward the green baize door, she hoped Wilkins was busy with her own mistress and not likely to meet her on the way to the servants hall. The other lady's maid had spent all of breakfast shooting peevish looks in Sarah's direction and appeared to be giving her the silent treatment. Sarah smirked to herself at the idea that Wilkens believed this muteness a punishment rather than a reward. Although, some kind of confrontation was certainly on the horizon.

Just as Sarah passed Lady Flintshire's room, she heard the door open behind her. Damn. Wilkins would want to passive-aggressively march right up next to her and make for a perfectly uncomfortable, silent trek down the stairs.

"Miss O'Brien," Lady Flintshire called softly behind her.

Sarah turned in surprise, "Yes, m'Lady."

"Would you be so kind-" the Marchioness fidgeted nervously with the door handle, "I'm sure you are very busy and if you need to see to Lady Grantham I would-" Sarah watched apprehensively as Lady Flintshire struggled to articulate her request. She actually appeared to be avoiding eye-contact. "If you wouldn't mind terribly, could you fix my hair like yesterday?" she asked, blushing slightly. "I don't think Wilkins has quite taken to your method."

"Of course, m'Lady." Wilkins will be incensed now. Sarah followed her ladyship into her room, preparing herself for a deadly glare from the other maid. But the room was empty. She turned to Lady Flintshire.

"I thought it best not to include Wilkins," said the Marchioness, looking away sheepishly. Sarah sensed the reason before the woman even finished her thought. The tension had been palpable the day before with the three of them standing in here, Lady Flintshire saying hardly a word while Sarah worked, all three in cold silence except for the sound of Wilkins grinding her teeth, radiating contempt. "I'd hate to be the cause of any discord while you're staying here at Duneagle."

With a slight smirk, Sarah nodded once in agreement and the Marchioness smiled, finally seeming to relax into herself. "Yes, yes I think we will do perfectly well just the two of us," said Lady Flintshire, and as Sarah stood waiting for further instructions she thought she saw that smile curl ever-so-slightly into something else, something a little bit mischievous. The expression had been fleeting and Sarah could not be sure she had seen it at all. But as she stepped further into the room to join her Ladyship sitting beside the dressing table, Sarah's whole body buzzed with a sense of anticipation. The words "we" and "the two of us" whirled in her mind. She was now a coconspirator in whatever they were doing. What were they doing? She was fixing Lady Flintshire's hair. That was all. And yet, the Marchioness made direct and seemingly meaningful eye-contact again holding her gaze through the mirror. Sarah swallowed. She quietly removed hair pins, trying to slow her heartbeat, willing her face not to make her sudden desirousness obvious. She wasn't even sure what she desired, if she desired anything at all. She had heard plenty of stories of maids being burned by entanglements with the lord of the manor. Sarah had always believed herself safe from such folly. In her nervous state, she did not say a word from the time she removed the first pin until she pulled the ivory and boar-bristle brush gently through Lady Flintshire's locks.

"Would you mind terribly if we talk while you work?"

"I'm sorry, m'Lady?" Sarah's preoccupied mind was roused by Lady Flintshire's request.

"I will warn you, I'm not nearly as charming as Lady Grantham, but I do not actually prefer sitting in silence. Yesterday was rather an unusual circumstance," she said, smiling at the farcicality of their awkward session the day before.

"Of course, m'Lady. What- erm what would you like to- this beading is very nice, who is your dressmaker?" Sarah struggled to make conversation at first, and felt a bit befuddled over it as smooth-talking Ladies had always been one of her best skills. She was not accustomed to feeling so gawky and graceless. Though soon enough, Lady Flintshire's self-deprecating manner and easy smile calmed Sarah's nerves. The woman didn't seem at all like the harpy Wilkins had described or even the aloof creature Sarah had witnessed when the Marchioness interacted with her family. They discussed fashion extensively, both amusingly coming to the conclusion that neither actually cared very much about the topic, both realizing they only read so much about it out of necessity because it was something women were _supposed to_ care about. Then they discussed several other feminine amusements that were of no interest to them.

"And I simply abhor, needlepoint and sewing of any kind," said the Marchioness with an emphatic shake of the head.

"Amen. If I could never hold another needle for the rest of my life I'd be a happy woman."

Lady Flintshire looked up, astonished, "But Lady Grantham raves about your needlework. I've seen it, it's immaculate!"

Sarah blushed at the compliment, "Well, m'Lady, with thirty years of practice it's hard not to develop a talent, liking or not liking the task doesn't come into it."

Lady flintshire responded incredulously, "I can't imagine doing something I hate for thirty years."

"Well it's not exactly a choice. Some of us have to work for a living," Sarah shot back sarcastically before her brain had time to catch what her lips were saying. She froze. Lady Flintshire's familiar manner had lowered her guard. She couldn't imagine being so bold and biting with Lady Grantham. She knew the Countess would have become quiet and stern, letting her know without words that she had overstepped. She braced herself for admonishment.

Lady Flintshire simply looked up at Sarah and snorted a laugh. She waved away Sarah's apprehensive expression saying, "Oh it's so refreshing to talk to someone without pretense." Sarah sighed in relief and before she could apologize the Marchioness continued, "so if you could replace all that sewing with something you actually enjoy what would it be?"

Sarah tilted her head in thought. Being asked about herself and her personal preferences was such a rare thing she had hardly thought about how to answer such questions. Normally she would feel uncomfortable being examined but with Lady Flintshire she felt uncannily at ease. "I suppose I would read."

Upon Sarah's confession, Lady Flintshire's eyes lit up and their conversation continued more enthusiastically than ever. They discussed book after book and found they had very similar tastes, though the Marchioness was more widely read by necessity. At some point Sarah finished Lady Flintshire's hair and her Ladyship stood to dismiss her but they were both so engrossed in their conversation neither moved away. Eventually they stumbled onto the topic of Rudyard Kipling and India. Lady Flintshire was dreading her upcoming transfer.

"But it will be an adventure with all those exotic place to see," Sarah encouraged.

"I'm not likely to do much traveling alone. No, I'm sure I'll spend the whole of the rest of my life sitting in my sweltering house in Bombay."

"Surely his Lordship will want to do some exploring," Sarah said but she could see in Lady Flintshire's pained and embarrassed expression that he was not likely to take his wife along if he did travel. "Well," she joked, "you could drag Wilkins about with you."

The Marchioness looked at her incredulously but smiled at the attempt to comfort. "I imagine you would make a better travel companion."

Sarah shifted on her feet. She envied Wilkins' opportunity but she and the Marchioness were treading into dangerous territory. Stealing another maid's position was low. And worse, Lady Grantham was a good mistress and Sarah was beginning to feel disloyal.

"Oh don't worry, O'Brien, I'm not going to try to poach you away," she said, rolling her eyes and lightly pushing Sarah's arm, "Your loyalty to Lady Grantham is really rather commendable though."

Sarah was taken aback by how accurately Lady Flintshire sensed her concerns. The Marchioness must have seen the surprise in her face because she continued, "You know, I feel as if I can read your thoughts without you even needing to speak. Is that common for you?" Sarah shook her head, dumbfounded, but feeling that desirousness more acutely than ever. "And I feel as if you can sense my thoughts when I haven't said anything to you at all." Sarah was suddenly aware of the other woman's proximity to her. Lady Flintshire had stepped closer until there was only six inches separating them. "I suppose that's more typical for you, though, reading a Lady's thoughts?" Sarah opened her mouth but she was speechless. She licked her lips, her breaths becoming shallow. She thought she caught Lady Flintshire glancing at her mouth. She watched the Marchioness' lips as they whispered, "What am I thinking right now?" Sarah's heart raced and she tilted her head unconsciously to compliment the Lady Flintshire's. As the gap between them closed, she lowered her eyelids.

The sound of the deadlatch clicking broke whatever spell had come over them. Each woman's eyes shot open. They jumped apart as Wilkins stepped into the room. The other maid eyed them suspiciously.

"Miss O'Brien was - uh checking my fringe," Lady Flintshire stammered.

"Looks good. Will that be all m'Lady?" Sarah asked, red-faced, turning her back to Wilkins.

"Yes. Thank you, O'Brien."

With that, Sarah nodded and hightailed it out of there, avoiding Wilkins' accusatory gaze. In the hall, her heart still raced. Running her fingers through her fringe, she took a few steps in one direction then turned and walked back the other way toward the green baize door.


	3. Chapter 3

Silently following Wilkins up the servants' stairs after the sound of the dressing gong, Sarah reckoned she could almost hear the annoyance in the way the other maid's heels clicked against each step. She thought back to the events of the previous afternoon. Upon escaping Lady Flintshire's bedroom she had hoped - against hope, she knew - that Wilkins would not imagine anything suspicious had happened - because of course nothing suspicious _had_ happened. Had it? However, last night when Sarah crossed the hall to her room after cleaning her teeth and washing her face and Wilkins had wished her a very gristly, unwelcoming "good night" she guessed she might not be so fortunate. The two maids marched up three flights of stairs without a word. Swiftly, Wilkins pushed through the green baize door, letting it slam closed behind her, forcing Sarah to jump back or lose a toe. At this point the woman's ire was difficult to mistake. Sarah rolled her eyes, pushing the door open again.

Lady Flintshire stood in the hallway - waiting for Wilkins, Sarah supposed. The Marchioness nodded to her maid and smiled subtly in Sarah's direction. Seeing her Ladyship again for the first time since the previous day, Sarah was taken aback by how intense the urge was to stop and talk with her, to ask her about her day, to hear more of her amusingly self-deprecating remarks. Instead she nodded a greeting and continued on to Lady Grantham's room. Best not to stir up any more trouble with Wilkins. Sarah knew perfectly well the kind of scheming a vindictive lady's maid could be capable of.

Throughout the afternoon and evening there were several more doors _accidentally_ slammed in Sarah's face, and numerous pointed scowls. Even the Bates' took note of Wilkins' cold reception, passing amused glances between themselves. Then suddenly, amid preparations for the Ghillies Ball, Wilkins became all smiles and friendliness. She hadn't even been particularly friendly _before_ the rift. Sarah did not buy it for second.

At the ball, Sarah tapped her feet to the music and she even joined in for a few dances; but, all the while she braced herself for some explosive final showdown. She watched the dancers from the side - apparently Anna had learned to reel. Sarah thought back about twelve years to a certain good and clever housemaid, before she was head housemaid, long before she was lady's maid, a young housemaid whom everyone always liked - with good reason, Sarah had to admit. She remembered one night out in the mostly dark yard with a visiting lady's maid for a smoke, a smoke that turned into a quick shag against the brick wall. Hearing footsteps in the dark she looked up from her conquest to see blonde hair over wide eyes. Sarah barked at her to run along, she was only another silly, naive, little housemaid then, easily scared off by Sarah's grousing. Still, she thought for sure there would be trouble. She waited to be called into Hughes' office for days after, then weeks, but nothing happened. Then one night, after the Servants Ball, Sarah was in her room, already changed for bed, when she heard a knock at her door. Before she could answer the young housemaid had pushed in, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"I saw you in the yard," she said.

Sarah debated about whether to feign ignorance or make an argument, "I was only helping Pearson with... a tear in her frock."

The girl gave her a dubious look, "I'm not some silly, naive, little housemaid you know. I know what I saw," she said, still smiling genially like she always did, even when chiding Sarah.

"No you're very clever," Sarah conceded.

The maid stepped forward, taking the billowy fabric of Sarah's night dress just above her navel in her hand. Sarah smelled the wine then. The girl was tight as a tick. She was small, it probably only took three glasses.

"You know, the thing about clever people is we get so curious," she said very close to Sarah's face.

Sarah stared down at the curiously clever housemaid biting her lip looking at Sarah's chest and heat rose up in her. She backed away against the wall but her nightdress pulled the girl along with her. "You're drunk," she argued, one last attempt to do the right thing, the sensible thing.

"So are you," the girl giggled and stepped forward so that Sarah could feel the warmth of her body through her nightdress. Her breath hitched. Maybe she _was_ drunk, because surely she would have sized up the situation before it got to this precarious point, surely she would not be thinking of doing what she was now certain she was about to do with a girl more than ten years her junior.

"You're too clever to be a housemaid," she whispered, taking the girl in her arms and letting herself be pulled onto the bed. She may have asked one or two times, "Are you sure?" without really intending to stop. The answer was always, "yes, yes."

They didn't speak about it the next day, or the next, or the day after that, and it never happened again. Sarah was confident enough in her abilities not to worry that it had anything to do with her partner being left unsatisfied. She knew relationships with coworkers were a risky business and she supposed Anna felt the same. She had thought so anyway. Sarah glanced across the dance floor at Mr. Bates - with his stick, and his jowls, all moony-faced gazing at his _wife_. She grimaced. She needed a drink. And there Wilkins was with a cup.

When she sipped what Wilkins had given her she felt a bit let down. Spiked punch? Honestly? The woman wasn't even disciplined enough to offer her the cup without smirking and one taste told Sarah it was nine parts scotch to one part punch. Only someone already as tight as Molesley could have swallowed that down. Amature. No thought, no planning, she really was a sorry excuse for a lady's maid. If Wilkins lost her place, Sarah certainly would not lose sleep over it anymore. She expressed that sentiment in so many words to the other maid and then proceeded to join Lady Flintshire on the other side of the ballroom.


End file.
